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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071099">5 TIMES EAMES COULD’VE RUINED ARTHUR (+1 TIME HE DID)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine'>AgnesClementine</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Inception (2010)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, I honestly don't know what else to tag, M/M, author doesn't know what she's doing, this is not nearly as dark or horny as the title might suggest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:41:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,314</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur meets Eames on a job in Morocco and thinks, you could ruin me.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur/Eames (Inception)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>5 TIMES EAMES COULD’VE RUINED ARTHUR (+1 TIME HE DID)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>*rolls up to the party 10 years late with Starbucks*</p>
<p>Welp, this is,,,an exercise?? I guess, of sorts, and I honestly can't tell if it's making sense at all ahssf<br/>It's basically just something short to start me off because the Arthur/Eames pairing finally got me XD</p>
<p>Let me know what you think and (hopefully) enjoy this!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>1.</b>
</p>
<p>Arthur meets Eames on a job in Morocco. Sweat slicks his palms and gathers in rivulets in the dip of his spine, and the chair he’s sitting on creaks and sways with every shift of his weight. The mark is already under, the rest of them on their way, and Eames gives him a look like he’s stripping him bare before their eyes close as well.</p>
<p>In the dream, Eames looks down at him from a winding staircase leading to the top of a watchtower. The light carves shadows over his face, looped around his head like a halo and Arthur thinks of painted windows in churches, casting colored beams of Sunlight onto the cold, granite floors. Then Eames grins at him, a twisted, cocky thing, a beautiful thing. And he thinks, <em> you could ruin me </em>.</p>
<p>He wakes up from the dream drowsy but keyed-up, hands shaking, throat dry.</p>
<p>Before they part ways, Eames tells him, “It was an <em>immense</em> pleasure doing business with you, Arthur.”</p>
<p>Arthur’s heart is beating a staccato in his ears, pounding against his breastbone.</p>
<p>“Likewise, Mr. Eames.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2.</b>
</p>
<p>The whiskey in his glass glints like liquid gold and Arthur stares at it for too long after the bartender sets the glass in front of him. </p>
<p>“Fancy seeing you here,” Eames says, sliding into the seat next to him with ease as liquid as the alcohol in Arthur’s glass.</p>
<p>“Are you trying to get me drunk?” He asks, at last taking the glass between his fingers, tipping it from side to side to see its contents swirls and splash inside.</p>
<p>“Would that be such a horrible thing?” Eames asks. There are crinkles in the corners of his eyes even though he’s not smiling, lips set in a contemplative line as he observes him.</p>
<p>Arthur holds the eye-contact for a moment, can’t bring himself to make it longer because Eames pulls him in like gravity. The crushing force of him tightening Arthur’s chest until he can’t draw in a full breath. </p>
<p>He doesn’t know the answer to that question, thinks, <em> you could ruin me </em>, and slides his glass over to Eames.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>3.</b>
</p>
<p>The consciousness comes to him like emerging from a lake in slow motion, baked under the harsh Sun of Middle East, drops of water rolling down his face, over the cut of his jaw to slip down his neck into his shirt collar. He has a headache.</p>
<p>Eames is next to him. Eames is holding the wheel. Eames is driving.</p>
<p>Eames says, “Bloody hell, welcome back. Don’t move your hand.”</p>
<p>Arthur lets out a sticky sigh, wipes the water from his forehead and his hand comes away stained red.</p>
<p>The shots ring out; miss, miss, hit. The rear glass shatters, Eames spits out a string of curses. Arthur paws the seat for his gun. It has to be somewhere.</p>
<p>It’s not somewhere.</p>
<p>They take a sharp turn, another one, Arthur’s whole body aches, and he dips back into the lake.</p>
<p>When he reemerges, Eames has his hand over his stomach. No gunshots.</p>
<p>Arthur is cold everywhere but where Eames’ hand is pressing down on his belly, watches, faintly interested, as blood soaks the rusty yellow cuff of Eames’ shirt, slips under the band of a watch clasped over his wrist. </p>
<p>His fingers are five sharp points in his flesh, like claws about to tear at his insides.</p>
<p>Arthur thinks, <em> you could ruin me </em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<ol>

</ol>
<p>They’re in the capital of Venezuela, just barely. The safe house is an ironic name for the place they’re inhabiting at the moment; bent beams and big, green leaves and bushes flanking the house on all sides.</p>
<p>The shower is in the back, the boiler connected to the outer wall with thick, metal hoops lets out only lukewarm water at best- since they just arrived a bit over an hour ago and didn’t turn on the generator to heat it up because they’ll be on their way again in less than few hours. </p>
<p>Arthur doesn’t mind the cold water (welcomes it in this humidity) as much as he minds the slowly rotting wooden planks under the showerhead, slimy beneath the soles of his feet. And then he stops minding that too when Eames steps in behind him, radiating heat like the Sun.</p>
<p>“Hope you don’t mind the company, darling,” he says, syrupy sweet, steers Arthur from under the stream with his presence alone, reaches for the shampoo on the windowsill.</p>
<p>His underarm grazes Arthur’s shoulder, warm breath breezing over his neck, and Arthur holds still, paralyzed against the scorching heat of him, life-giving, life-taking.</p>
<p>He breathes out measured puffs of air, keeps his eyes on his toes, and the slowly rotting wooden planks and the grass peeking out between the cracks. The water cascades behind him, slip and slide over Eames’ skin, little droplets bouncing off his shoulders to sprinkle over Arthur’s back.</p>
<p>The planks creak as Eames shuffles closer, fingertips gently bumping over the ridges of Arthur’s spine, up, up, up to the valley of his shoulder blades. Three pressure points, hot and melting until there’s just one, twisting like a knife dug in between his vertebrae. </p>
<p>He thinks, <em> the capital of Venezuela. </em> He thinks, <em> Caracas. Carcass </em> . He thinks, <em> you could ruin me </em>, and lets out a shuddering breath.</p>
<p>Eames’ fingers still, ghost gently over his skin before he hums and disappears back into the house.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>5.</b>
</p>
<p>His heart pounds in his chest, breath leaving him in sharp bursts while the smoke clears. The building next to theirs is getting licked up by flames, furious whips of fire reaching out through the burst windows, trying to swallow up the sky.</p>
<p>They are standing near the edge of the rooftop, Eames with one leg hitched up on the ledge, looking down at the street. He clicks his tongue as their mark stumbles out into the crowd of onlookers on the sidewalk, looking around in confusion.</p>
<p>“Shame, that,” Eames says, “there goes our money.”</p>
<p>He is right; they didn’t have time to extract anything of importance before the fire sirens roused them all from the dream. They just managed to make their escape before the mark came to his senses.</p>
<p>Arthur keeps his eyes on Eames’ profile, the line of his nose, soft, full curves of his lips, the jut of his chin. </p>
<p>“You’re awfully quiet, darling,” Eames turns to look at him, eyes bright and hungry. “Something on your mind?”</p>
<p>
  <em> You could ruin me. </em>
</p>
<p>Arthur wants to kiss him.</p>
<p>He turns and leaves.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>+1</b>
</p>
<p>There’s no dreaming in this line of work. With time, dreamless sleep is all the awaits you once the lights are off and you’re ready for the unconsciousness to take you. When Arthur closes his eyes, his eyelids are painted with the vision of Eames on that winding staircase from their first job, showered in light. </p>
<p>In the evening, there’s a knock on his front door, a quick rap of knuckles, and Eames, holding a bottle of wine.</p>
<p>“Evening, Arthur,” he says, sweeping in like the calmest tornado, but ready to destroy everything in his path all the same. Arthur knows him too well to think anything else.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>Eames spins on his heels, tweed blazer fluttering. “I brought wine.”</p>
<p>Arthur nods.</p>
<p>“And wine is to be drank, isn’t it?” Eames continues, a smile drawing lines on his face.</p>
<p>“It is,” Arthur agrees, one step forward, another one, another, pulled in by Eames’ gravity.</p>
<p>Eames’ eyes are dancing, skimming over Arthur’s face, down the curve of his neck and shoulder. He touches Arthur’s hand, callouses dragging over his skin, to pull it up and press his lips over the pulse point on his wrist. </p>
<p>Arthur meets Eames on a job in Morocco and thinks, <em> you could ruin me </em>. </p>
<p>Now, he drags him in to slant their lips together and thinks, <em> maybe it’s not such a bad thing </em>.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
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